


Practice

by merr



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Child Neglect, Childhood, Feels, Gen, Protective Bobby Singer, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 02:08:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2049330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merr/pseuds/merr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six-year-old Sammy sneaks outside one morning to practice drawing Devil's traps and anti-possession symbols. The motel management isn't impressed -- and neither is John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Practice

"Dammit, Dean -- you have _one_ job -- and that's keep Sam outta trouble. He's a child, for chrissake's, how hard can it be?"

They were packing up their things double-time, the suspicious elderly woman on the early-morning management staff giving them the stinkeye from the front office. Dean didn't keep his mouth shut because he knew better than to argue, or even because he knew if they started yelling at one another, six-year-old Sammy would jump out of the backseat of the Impala and start yelling at Dad again. Dean didn't pipe up to defend himself because, even at ten years old, he was learning how to kick himself for not watching out for Sammy close enough.

The shtriga was never far from his mind whenever he had a flash of wanting to leave the hotel room, even for a minute. He always took Sammy with him now, which, sure -- the kid whined about it when he didn't want to go -- but, as the boys always had and always would, they eventually gave in to one another.

This time was different. Sammy had gone outside without _him_. Sammy had been yelling it at John from the moment he caught his youngest son and dragged him inside, hard eyes locking onto the sleeping form of the older boy.

"Dean's sick! He's been all sweaty and red-faced! He fell over in the shower, I heard him!"

"Boy! Wake up! You know where I found your brother?!"

Dean was on his feet before he was even fully awake, coughing into one fist while the other pulled a gun from under his pillow, "Wha-- Sammy? Where--?"

"Right here!" John pushed Sam toward the bed where he glanced up at his older brother for a moment, then rubbed what looked like chalk off his little hands and onto his jeans. His bangs covered his eyes and Dean looked up at his Dad, knowing it would be better to ask Sam about it later.

"Are you -- is he okay? Where was he?"

John Winchester held one of his huge paws out and dropped a bunch of colored chalk on the bed -- the chalk they used for devil's traps, true, but also some other, brighter colors. Ones Dean didn't recognize. He walked closer to Sam, asking quietly, "Where'd you get those, Sammy? Did you go all the way to the store without me?"

John snapped at Dean to help him pack things up -- the manager on duty had complained, threatened to call child services if they didn't make themselves scarce.

 _Wow, how_ protective _of her..._ Dean thought as he fell into familiar step, packing things up and wondering how bad his Dad was gonna scold him when Sammy wasn't in the room, still peeping up every so often in Dean's defense: "I was sneaky! He was sleeping! It's sunrise -- it's okay!"

Now, standing at the open trunk of the car, Sam buckled in back with his arms crossed and not glancing back at them every so often only because the trunk was blocking his view, John put a heavy hand on his ten-year-old son's shoulder, leaning closer to his face and searching his long-lashed eyes, not quite hardened yet: "Listen, Dean. When I'm not around, you're the _one thing_ standing between all those monsters and your brother. I'm _trusting_ you to take care of him, and I know you can. Sammy trusts you to do the same. Always make sure you deserve that trust, okay?" He squeezed his son's arm once more, as close to affectionately as the man ever got these days, then pulled him out of the way to slam the trunk shut, "Alright, it's about eight hours to Bobby's, let's get a move on."

Dean tried to stay awake, he did, but almost as soon as they got on the first stretch of road, he slipped under, thinking about how tall and strong his dad was, how big his shoulders were, how maybe someday, if he could get his shit together and learn how to do things right, _he'd_ be that big and strong and indestructible. He dreamed of the backyard of the old house, Sammy smelling new and strange next to him on a blanket while their mom laughed, watching Dean watch the baby with confusion and suspicion. The fever dream turned south quick (like most of his dreams did) and soon it was all fire and heat and faces in the dark.

Dean woke up in a bed, confused, hearing Bobby ripping into his dad just outside the door -- he was trying to be quiet, of course, but when Dean looked over to the lump laying next to him, Sammy's eyes were wide open, too.

"Jesus, John, he's got a fever of a 103! Did it occur to you to maybe _check_ and see what was wrong with him?"

"Dammit, Bobby, he needs to learn how to function under less-than-ideal circumstances." His voice dropped a little bit, maybe a hint of... something not-defensiveness, "When I left on Wednesday, he just had a small cough. I thought it was allergies."

" _Wednesday!_ "

"They've been alone longer than three days before! You wanna come be their live-in babysitter, do ya?"

The men were moving down the hallway now, then down the stairs, voices trailing off. Sammy was up in an instant, feet barely making noise on the floor, "Bobby left Apsirin for you."

As Dean took the glass of water and pills, he automatically corrected, "AS-pirin, Sammy. The S before the P."

Sam shrugged and hopped up onto the bed next to his brother, waiting for him to put the glass down and fidgeting with the blanket, "...I'm sorry I got you in trouble."

Dean drained the glass, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then set the empty snifter down, "What were you doin' out there, anyway?"

Sam looked up, face earnest: "I was practicing! You said, when we warded the room, that I should practice more! So... I did!"

Dean reached out and smacked his baby brother on the side of the head, admonishing but playful, "You dummy. You should practice with pencil and paper."

He couldn't help but smile at Sammy when he got that stubborn look on his face: "It's not the same! I wanna practice how big I need to do it!"

Dean put his arms out and Sam barreled into him, knocking them both over and cuddling into his older brother's chest. The older Winchester boy hugged him close and grunted, "Well, don't worry about it. Dad'll get over it, and I'll find you a better way to practice, okay?"

Sam nodded and Dean puffed a breath out to get the kid's hair outta his mouth as he mumbled, "I know, Dean. You always know how to fix things, I trust you."

The next day, Bobby took Dean and Sam out to a park nearby (he'd seen the kid's fever break and restlessness take its place, hazel eyes glancing out the window once every two minutes). Sammy was busy climbing a small crab apple tree while Bobby kept one eye on him and the other on Dean, determined to teach the kid how to play catch.

It just about broke his old, grizzled heart when Dean said matter-of-factly that John said he should be practicing with a shotgun. Bobby growled back that he'd throw a ball around at least once like a 'regular snot-nosed little jerk' and the dazzling smile Dean gave him made his jaw clench under his beard before smiling back. _I'll do the best I can to make sure you two don't grow up_ completely _backwards, kiddo._

On the way back from the park, Bobby turned into a craft-store parking lot, saying quietly to Dean across Sammy eating an ice cream cone, "Alright, come on, kid. You," he pointed at Sammy, eyes narrowing, "Stay. Put. Understand?"

Sam nodded distractedly, waving his free hand and taking a bite out of his ice cream. 

Once inside the craft store, Bobby adjusted his cap and hunted around, Dean at his heels. When he turned around ( _Dean's being waaaaay too quiet..._ ), he saw the ten-year-old slip something inside his jacket, watching in the other direction, toward the clerk. Bobby grabbed his arm and Dean whipped around, eyebrows drawn together, a flush rising in his cheeks.

"Hand it over, Dean."

His freckled face dropped and he dug the package out of his coat, not looking at Bobby as he handed it over.

Bobby felt his eyes sting as he blinked down at the multicolored, liquid glass-chalk markers, huffing out quietly, "Ya little idjit..."

Dean rubbed at the inside of his elbow, murmuring, "...Please don't tell Dad. I'll put it back."

"Like _hell_ ya will." Dean looked up at him, face flushing deeper, about to beg -- but Bobby put a hand up then dug a ten dollar bill out of his pants pocket, stacked it on top of the markers and handed the whole thing back to him. 

Dean blinked at it the squinted up, worried it was a test, but Bobby just ruffled his hair for a moment, then pushed him toward the cash register, "Go on, we ain't got all day. Sam'll run outta ice cream eventually."

The demeanor change in Dean's body as he walked up to the register, bowlegged and bouncing, little chest swelling with happiness... Seeing it, Bobby felt yet another hairline crack open up across his heart.


End file.
